


must be dreaming

by afterism



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post-Death Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:41:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/pseuds/afterism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1980 and Gene needs to get out of town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	must be dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [09/02/08](http://users.livejournal.com/_afterism/110920.html), after the first episode of Ashes to Ashes aired and we found out what happened to Sam.

It ( _aches_ ) is a silent struggle to be in the station. Oh, he can swagger through with natural ease and do his job the way only he knows how, bark orders and drive the Cortina and interrogate suspects but there's always

Tyler's empty desk

no longer ridiculously tidy because there's nothing on it to be meticulously organised. One of the plonks tried to clear it and he nearly backhanded her, waited until everyone had left for the night and his bottle of scotch was half empty before approaching it himself and slowly going through every drawer, folder and scrap of paper that he finds. There's a framed, smiling photo of Sam and Annie together propped up next to the phone, the one personal item allowed among the careful collection of reports and files, and Gene rests his fingers on the simple frame for a second before tipping it forward and leaving it face down. 

He clears the rest with enough ease to appear even nonchalant, flinging the reports on Chris's desk and barely lingering over the few personal effects that were ever stored there. It's all in a box tucked away in an unseen corner of his office, and he never even glances at it. 

 

The little things start to get to him, haunting like ghosts (he thinks he really _sees_ Sam, once, sneering at him with his arms folded and a reprimand on the tip of his tongue as Gene stumbles drunk down the street. He reaches out to grasp at Sam's arm, pull him closer and yell at him for being such a sodding poofter, but fingers meet cold air and his knees hit the road) jumping out when he's working, or drinking, or staring at the body of a murdered teenager. Just snatches of remembered conversations or punches, every street and building and room with it's own personal memory stored away in the walls, waiting to creep forward and be remembered.

There are some roads he has to avoid altogether, but no one questions it when he steers away and takes the long way around.

 

The river. The dumping ground. That chippy where they bagged two blokes trying to sell off several boxes of stolen radios. The abandoned warehouse. The spot under the bridge where they found the third victim of a serial killer and Sam got a punch in the gut. Heathfield Road. That poncy tennis club. The dark corner of an alleyway behind a suspect's house. The tunnel down by the railway line. The block of flats, the locks changed and some old woman long since installed. That poncy, cosy house. That road where they spent four hours watching a completely empty house. Lost and Found. _Contaminated._

 

For a while, he's more reckless than ever. Even Ray shoots him a worried (or maybe just confused, follow the leader but then the rules change) look after he smashes a suspect's face into the wall until he's spitting teeth. Thinks that maybe he can beat his way out of this, punch away whatever sickness he's feeling with blood and bruises and replace the memories, give each scene a new taste (of fights and sweat and justice) that never quite covers the old one. For a second it feels like Sam's restraining hand on his shoulder, but it's just Annie looking at him with wide, concerned eyes and he shakes her off with a grimace and an order.

For half an hour, a weak, lonely half an hour at some painful time in the morning, he sits at his desk and goes through reports, evidence and interview tapes while trying to satisfy that lingering presence at his side. He gives up, frustrated in so many ways and ends up waking up the poor sod in cell two and yelling at him for being a useless waste of fresh air -- but his fists are still clenched when he leaves and he's just itching for someone who's not afraid to hit him back, for a fair fight and a promise of shared whiskey afterwards. He briefly considers kicking someone's door in, but instead folds himself into the Cortina and drives back to an empty house.

 

She left. He didn't even bother with the token resistance as he knocked back another glass and she went to stay at her sister's, an (overly) optimistic promise of returning when he'd sorted himself out. He didn't. She never came back. He noticed, of course he did but he never figured out if it was lack of courage or want (or something else, that lingering taste) that meant he never picked up the phone.

 

Even the Cortina stung, just a little. Ray fills the passenger seat with almost too much ease (and he doesn't say anything but -- _Christ_ ) and he's usually far too busy swerving and speeding to pay much attention to any persistent memories that flicker around the edges but then there's silent stake-outs. Long hours of nothing but staring at not much, and when he catches glimpses of someone in the passenger seat who really shouldn't be there, well. It's just his bloody mind playing tricks, protesting against the boredom. Nothing more. 

 

(He misses him so much that it chokes and claws at his words, but he'd rather cut himself off from the city he loves than ever admit it.)


End file.
